


Ecthelion and Glorfindel: the Extras

by tehta



Series: The Theban Band of Gondolin (Size: Two) [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Flowers, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehta/pseuds/tehta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I was working on the longer Ecthelion/Glorfindel stories, my brain would, ever so often, boil over and dump out a vignette or two.</p><p>Now, I am dropping them all over here. Most are (meant to be) humour, although Alqualonde Days -- which is a complete, self-indulgent story, actually -- is not. Small caveat: I doubt many of them make sense outside the context of this series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ecthelion and Glorfindel celebrate an anniversary in their own way.

"Here, I brought you a present."

"Thank you, Glorfindel." Ecthelion regarded the box in Glorfindel's hand with confusion. True, they had exchanged gifts before, but only on certain expected occasions, as friends might; anyway, those gifts had been gifts of weaponry, and the box seemed far too small to contain anything along those lines. "Any, um, reason?"

"Well, I just met with Turgon, and he was in one of his moods, and Idril told me it's because he misses his sister, who left just over a dozen years ago. So then I thought about, you know, anniversaries, painful and not, and, anyway, here you go." He held his gift out further.

Ecthelion accepted it; it felt light in his hand. Anniversaries? Aredhel's departure had brought them together, true, but a concept like an "anniversary" hardly applied. Anniversaries were when lawfully wedded pairs exchanged jewellery, and plants, and maybe sweetmeats…

Sweetmeats. Oh Eru. It was a candy box. No question about it: when shaken, it rustled and rattled slightly in that familiar candy-box fashion. But surely Glorfindel could not have thought he would approve of such a mockery of lawful bonds? And such a tacky mockery, at that? No, the container had to be reused: it would hold, say, some paper-wrapped harpstrings. The anniversary of some concert, perhaps.

Ecthelion lifted the lid and looked inside. No harpstrings. But as for sweetmeats…

"Glorfindel… this candy box seems to be half empty."

"Yes, I know. I ate my favourites. I decided you might think it improper for us to follow anniversary traditions such as candy exchanges, so I made sure you could not view this as a traditional gift."

"Ah. How thoughtful." Ecthelion had a vague, troubling feeling that it really was. "I suppose it is just as well. I have no gift to offer in return, traditional or not."

"You can make it up to me in other ways." Glorfindel sent him a meaningful look while reaching over and popping one of the remaining sweetmeats into his mouth.

Ecthelion watched this performance intently.

"What?" Glorfindel rubbed at the corner of his mouth. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No, no, I am simply trying to deduce what 'other way' you are trying to suggest by leering at me while eating your way through my present."

"Is it not obvious?" Glorfindel ate another candy with exaggerated enjoyment.

"No. Well, I have some ideas, but your enthusiastic chewing worries me, and besides these sweetmeats are rather insultingly tiny."

"Do not get so hung up on the details. My leer was general, not specific."

"Ah. 'Other ways' in general, then? But, based on what I have heard, these 'other ways' are another common way of celebrating anniversaries. Are you not worried that I will find them just as inappropriately traditional?"

"I think that would be inconsistent of you." Glorfindel reached into the box again. "They cannot be Unnatural Acts one day, Overly-Traditional Acts the next."

They looked at each other for a moment. Ecthelion was aware of some flaws in Glorfindel's logic, but he did not want to consider them too closely. That ridiculous box… in spite of its conventionality, its impropriety, its impending emptiness, it had touched him somehow. He did not want to consider that too closely, either. Well, there was one very easy way to stop thinking.

"I suppose Unnatural Acts are really the best response to an unnatural gift." He closed the box firmly and moved it out of Glorfindel's reach. "But I hope you will not mind if I, much like the gift-giver, selfishly pick out my favourites."


	2. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another moral dilemma

Glorfindel let himself into Ecthelion's room in silence, but the moment he had locked the door behind himself his volume increased considerably.

"I cannot believe," he said, "that you voted against my proposal in today's council."

Ecthelion set the mandolin he'd been tuning aside. "Well, I cannot believe you actually made that proposal."

"What do you mean? I thought you agreed that skiing really is the best way to send reports down from the mountain guard-posts. At least in winter."

"I do. And so does everybody else: it is completely self-evident. Which is why," said Ecthelion with a Look, "I see no need for you to personally lead an expedition to investigate the feasibility of the method, and pick the best routes. If you want to go skiing, do it in your time off."

"You know I do." Glorfindel threw himself down into one of the fireside chairs and looked up at the ceiling, avoiding the Look. "But the snow is so fluffy this year. It seems a shame to miss it. And it is not as if I would be depriving some other officer of pleasure: most of the obvious alternatives are still too weighed down by memories of the Ice to get any joy out of skiing."

Glorfindel would, of course, have thought about this before making the proposal, Ecthelion realized. Guilt drowned out his self-righteous disapproval. "If it means that much to you," he said, "I'll swap some shifts with you, and take over some of the others--help you free up some time, so you can take advantage of all the fluffiness."

"Hmm." Glorfindel ran a hand through his hair. "That is a tempting suggestion. However, I cannot accept. Quite apart from the fact that doing so would make me feel uncomfortably selfish, it would cut into the time we get to spend together this winter."

This was true--but it would be selfish to mind, and to deprive Glorfindel of something he so enjoyed for that reason. Ecthelion decided to lighten the mood. "Oh, I am not sure about that," he said.

"No? Why?" Glorfindel sat up. "Would you come with me--no, you could not, if we are to swap shifts… But maybe we could both swap with--"

"I only meant that it would give you more of an opportunity to injure yourself. Like that time you broke your leg climbing, and I offered to bring you daily reports."

"Yes…" said Glorfindel dreamily. "Yes, that was fun… It is almost a pity that-- You know, I did have one particularly adventurous idea. I suspect scouts would get to the city faster if they just jumped off cliffs instead of skiing around them… But someone should try it, first. Someone like me. After all," he continued more confidently, "*that* is the sort of investigation I would feel uncomfortable passing onto anyone else. Yes, I think I will need to resubmit my proposal."

Sometimes, Glorfindel's physical courage was a little worrying. "I think I will need to veto that proposal, as well," said Ecthelion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dagmar wrote a summary for this fic! Here it is:
> 
> Glorfindel: The weather is fine, the snow is perfect for skiing and I want a paid extra vacation.
> 
> Ecthelion: *is morally upright and uptight.*
> 
> Glorfindel: On the other hand, I'm just as willing to be completely suicidal and break my legs, ribs, arms and back for the off chance that you will spend a lot of quality time at my bedside.
> 
> Ecthelion: *is charmed.*


	3. Alqualonde Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ecthelion and Glorfindel discuss Ecthelion's youthful experiences.
> 
> This scene just nagged at me until I set it down.  
> Since there is no humour to dilute the angst, perhaps I should warn for, well... young Ecthelion's internalized homophobia, and general distress.

"Ecthelion, is there anything you are bad at?" asked Glorfindel.

"What?" Ecthelion rolled onto his side so that they faced each other, a hand's breadth apart. "Of course, many things. Why do you ask?"

"I can't think of anything," said Glorfindel happily. "You understand plumbing and architecture, you sing and play various instruments perfectly, you fight as well as I do--"

"I am a disaster in the forge, my cooking is indifferent, and, as you are well aware, my healing skills are laughable."

"It is only because you rarely have cause to do any of these things, but I am sure you could master them if needed. You seem to pick up new skills very quickly. Faster than me, sometimes. For instance..." The most obvious example pricked at Glorfindel's pride, but he decided to offer it anyway. "Here, in this bed, I find myself taking my cue from you, even as we learn together."

Ecthelion started, then shifted his head awkwardly in an attempt to evade Glorfindel's eyes--not an easy task at such close quarters.

"Please stop that," said Glorfindel, irked by the contrast between this skittishness and his own honesty. "We should be able to discuss the things we do when we are not doing them."

"I know." Ecthelion twisted away to lie on his back. "It is just that... some of the things we do, I have done them before."

"You mean by yourself? So have--"

"No. Not by myself."

Rising up on one elbow, Glorfindel studied Ecthelion's impassive profile and tried to reconcile this new information with all he had seen over his years of Ecthelion-watching. It just did not fit. "This would have been before we met? In your Alqualonde days?"

"Yes."

Glorfindel fell back against his pillow, relieved and yet disturbed by the vague image of a mysterious man, full of unknowable charms, that now rose up in his mind. "All right. Tell me about him," he said.

"About--? Oh. It was more than one person, actually." Ecthelion continued his inspection of the ceiling.

Multiple phantoms crowded Glorfindel's imagination. "You cannot just leave it at that," he said.

"Sorry," said Ecthelion quietly before sitting up. "Please excuse me. I will tell you everything, I promise, I just need to be dressed when I do."

"And are you planning to go home right afterwards?"

"Only if you ask me to."

They dressed. Ecthelion seemed full of grim purpose, like a man about to undergo some painful medical procedure--or perhaps to perform it for the first time. Reminded of the time he had assisted a field surgeon, Glorfindel poured two glasses of fortified wine, a much stronger vintage than the one they had used when toasting their new happiness. Ecthelion did not seem aware of accepting his drink, and swallowed half of it as if it was water before sitting down on a hard, isolated chair.

"My mother comes from Alqualonde, you know," he said once Glorfindel, too, was seated. "From a famously musical family. She met my father in Tirion, where she went to view the Silmarils soon after they were made: he had just finished building a new fountain there, and she liked its song. After they married, they traveled in the manner of many Noldorin craftsmen, going wherever my father's calling took him--but when they saw that I had inherited my mother's talent, they decided there was only one place where it could be developed in full: the Musical Academy she herself had attended. And that is how, at fifty-five, I ended up living in my aunt's house in Alqualonde.

"I enjoyed my studies, of course, but I soon found that I was not the type who could sit over scrolls of musical notation all week long. I needed to move around, preferably to some purpose. My aunt had a few neighbours with boys around my age. I joined them on their spear-fishing expeditions."

Ecthelion shifted in his seat. A strand of hair fell forward, concealing part of his face; he did not brush it back.

"Customs are different there among the fishermen," he said. "I do not know why. Perhaps because they rarely marry until they have taken command of a boat, or some equally prestigious shore-bound job--but then some of the Noldor marry late, as well, and it is not considered a problem. At any rate, it is not viewed as abnormal for the younger men to be... physically affectionate with each other when alone, instead of repressing their curiosity, or expressing it with the maidens. If everyone involved is male, there is no question of any unwanted permanent attachment-- No, that is not quite right. I think it is appreciated as a way to build or strengthen lifelong friendships. And perhaps as practice for marriage. Which supersedes it, of course."

"And what did this affectionate behaviour of yours involve, exactly?"

"When we dropped anchor in remote places, a couple of us might talk. About women, usually. Embrace. Help each other out a little."

"Ah." The twinge in Glorfindel's chest was definitely jealousy, but whether he felt jealous of the Teleri or of Ecthelion he could not decide. "That sounds so... unconstrained and guilt-free. I find it difficult to picture you there, given your principles."

"I did not think about it in moral terms, at least not very often. It seemed part of that life, like the wine we poured on the waves to win Osse's favour."

"Was there anyone in particular you--"

"No, nobody like that. I was an outsider, in some ways: I did not love the sea, not as the others did, and we all knew I would leave someday."

Glorfindel decided to believe him--and to envy him the experience. It was easier that way. "Well, I wish I had been there to participate in these intriguing Telerin customs," he said. When Ecthelion looked away, still grim, he added, "Does that bother you, that I would most likely have acted the same way?"

"No. I don't think so. Oh, I do not know. But please, I am not finished." Ecthelion got up to refill his glass. He returned with the wine bottle in hand. "One day I talked to one of my teachers, a renowned voice coach, about traditional Telerin music. I brought up the songs I had heard on my fishing trips. When I mentioned the trips themselves, he looked at me in an odd up-and-down way and asked me how I enjoyed the comradeship. I did not know what to say. I was very non-committal, but he must have seen my confusion, for he gave me a lecture. He told me that the trips were a waste, that I was squandering my emotional energy."

I bet he did, Glorfindel thought. "He was jealous, surely."

Ecthelion threw him a surprised glance. "I did not read it that way. He said I should be focusing on my music instead--and I agreed. I stopped fishing. To be honest, the whole thing was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. My peers were losing interest one by one, as they met--and fell in love with--women, but even though I knew more women than anyone, because of the Academy, it just did not seem to be happening to me. I started to suspect that I was a bit strange."

"Not to me." Glorfindel smiled. "Now I really wish I had been there. We would have been left over together. Just imagine--"

"Yes, of course," said Ecthelion absently. "Anyway, time passed. I convinced myself that being alone was right for me, that I was supposed to devote myself to music. I worked hard. Whenever I became frustrated, I would go and get myself knocked about a bit: soon after giving up fishing, I had approached the older warriors, the ones who remembered the dangers of the journey to Valinor, and asked them to teach me to fight. But mostly I worked. My studies were so focused that I was asked to give my graduation performance early, but of course I delayed it until I felt almost satisfied with it."

"Let me guess: it was the best such performance in centuries."

Ecthelion smiled. "It went well. That same evening, the masters held a gathering, and I got invited. Quite a few people talked to me." His smile widened. "Artists! The older ones were rather critical, but when I responded calmly, their criticisms became more detailed, useful. I felt as if I were one of them, a musician they took seriously, and no longer a student. I enjoyed myself that night."

He looked down at his glass and drew a finger along its edge to produce a musical sound before continuing in a tightly controlled voice.

"Later, I walked home with the teacher who had invited me, the voice coach I mentioned. He wanted to stroll down by the shore to clear his head."

Glorfindel was developing a serious dislike of this man. "What was his name?"

"It is not important. At any rate... Seeing the sea over a marble balustrade is very different from seeing it over the railing of a ship, but looking out over the waves, warm with wine, I was reminded of my younger days. I sang a bit of a sea shanty, and began to discuss its theory. That was how we spoke about everything, at the school. All very... abstract, usually. But he interrupted me. He asked me about my old companions, whether I saw much of them. I said no, and he asked whether I missed them, and I said yes, but I had outgrown them, so he asked if it was because of a woman. And I said no."

Ecthelion shook his head, his mouth twisted with self-disgust.

"It was a mistake, of course, but the question had surprised me. Although I had not thought of the subject in a while, it still felt a bit strange, and I suppose my tone revealed it. He said, 'But you are so beautiful, Ehtelion, you should not be alone,' which I heard as polite nonsense, but then... We were standing side by side, leaning over the railing. He put his arms around me and kissed me. And I--I realized that, although he had been my teacher, and was much older, he was also slighter and a bit shorter. I became aware of him as a person, a body rather than an abstract idea. A male body--he was not so slight so as not to hold my interest. He liked to perform the more heroic roles. So I responded," he said carefully, as if each word pained him, "as best I could. I remembered what I had learnt in the earlier days, and copied what he did, and, well, I was too proud to reveal any ignorance or inexperience."

"But what did you two do?"

Ecthelion raised a hand to his face. "Oh, nothing we haven't."

"More than in your fishing days?"

"Yes, but... that was not as important as the fact that it all seemed so much more deliberate. Much more honest, I should say, since there was no pretense that it was a substitute for anything else, and less honest too, since there was no real affection between us, and yet he kept saying things to me, more ridiculous nonsense. Afterwards, I held myself together long enough to part cordially, but when I got back to my room I could not sleep, or even sit still. My thoughts leapt about like sparks. I did not want it to happen again, but I was not sure I had any choice."

Glorfindel's jealousy burned brightly now, and this melodramatic commentary was not helping. "You did care for him, then. You must have, to react so strongly."

"No, no, no, I was simply shocked to discover who I was and what my options were. Him, I thought a sly sort of man, undeserving of my full respect, and the way he acted when we finally spoke again confirmed it." Ecthelion took a swallow of the wine. When he resumed speaking, his voice was calm once more. "I did not go back to the Academy the next day, knowing that people would not find it strange if a singer rested after a performance. The day after, he came to visit me at my aunt's house, and gained entry to my room, as one of my instructors. When he saw that I was packing, we had words."

Now that he understood the man was not a real rival, Glorfindel tried to be generous. "He must have felt deeply rejected, when he realized you were leaving without a goodbye. I do not know what he said, but I know I might have reacted badly myself, in his place."

"That is different. You might have argued, even called me names, but would you have insulted my singing?"

"No." Glorfindel could not see himself resorting to such clumsy attempts to cause pain, not even when arguing with someone he disliked. Still, the comment must have hurt, coming from a teacher. "Ecthelion, I am sure he did not mean it."

"Oh, I did not care. I knew my worth by then. I was more struck by what he implied--what he eventually said. Which was that I had been trading on my looks and my unorthodox inclinations to further my progress at the Academy, that I had deliberately seduced him to gain his patronage. He even... He asked me who my next target was: one of the musicians from the party, or one of the Noldorin princes, perhaps."

"What?" All sympathy drained out of Glorfindel. "He said that--to you?"

"It made some sense. I acted friendlier back then, and paid less attention to my appearance. Also, I had not quite accepted my inclinations, so I was not so careful to hide them. And then, I had responded. I was hardly innocent."

"Rubbish. Just--insane, cruel rubbish. And if you keep defending this individual I will have to assume he did mean something to you, and throw a jealous fit."

"I do not mean to defend him. He deserves nothing but contempt: throwing out angry accusations during an argument is one thing, but I believe he later shared them with others. I do not know how many people he told, or what they thought, since I left soon afterwards. All I know is that, when I reached my parents' house, they already knew something of the situation. My mother had received a letter from a friend, an old accompanist."

"Oh, Ecthelion." Glorfindel did not know whether to feel frustration or relief at the thought that Valinor--and hence this man--was out of his reach. He settled on concern, instead. "How did your parents react?"

"After I told them I had not acted out of calculation, but had left Alqualonde because I was ashamed of participating in such things, they calmed down a bit. Although not entirely: I understand now that they probably saw my dark mood as partial confirmation of my guilt. I was fairly ignorant back then, you know, even if I thought myself corrupt to the core. At any rate, they both kept a wary eye on me while I lived at home. Fortunately, sword fighting was becoming fashionable among the nobles, and when I asked my father to help me find a related position at some court, he did so gladly. He had just finished designing some ornamental ponds for Turgon, and though the atmosphere of Noldorin propriety surrounding that particular prince would do me good."

Glorfindel reminded himself that commenting on other people's parents was risky. "Then surely it all turned out for the best, in the end? I don't mean just with me, but with your post at the court, and your work, which you enjoy."

"Yes, I suppose it did." Ecthelion studied Glorfindel for a moment. "You are taking this very well."

"Am I? What did you expect me to do? No, do not answer that: I can guess. I will not deny that many aspects of your story appall me, but little of that has anything to do with you. The one thing I want to reproach you for is not waiting for me--but to do so would be ridiculous, as we had not even met."

"No, we had not. That was part of the problem, of course: I had no idea people like you existed." Ecthelion's eyes brightened as if with fever, or perhaps with wine; his glass was, once again, empty. "People who can find honour even in our vice."

"People who really wish you would stop referring to it as 'our vice'. Although I suppose I should learn to appreciate your attitudes, if they are what has kept you away from other men for so long. After all, it is as your lecherous teacher said: you are too beautiful to be alone, Ehtelion."

Ecthelion looked away again. "Please do not quote him like that."

"But I think it will help. Don't you see? It would be easier, for both of us, to view this as a shared joke than as a sordid secret of yours."

"Perhaps. However, if the joke is going to be about me running around seducing people, then I doubt I will ever find it very funny."

"Well, you should. It's completely absurd. Actually..." Glorfindel smiled. "I would be willing to acknowledge that 'running around seducing people' is something you are genuinely bad at."

Ecthelion sat back in his chair and exhaled slowly. "I seem to have done well enough with you."

"No, that was all my work. Unlike you, I have a talent for that sort of thing."

"Really?" Ecthelion leaned forward to top up Glorfindel's glass. "Do tell me about it."


	4. The Uses of Pointy Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The challenge was: write a story where Ecthelion wears heels, but keep him in character.
> 
> I accepted the challenge.
> 
> The result is possibly the dumbest thing I have ever written. The next chapter is much better, I swear!

"Thank you, Maeglin. This armour is a perfect fit." Ecthelion rotated his arms at the shoulders. "Marvelously put together. So much freedom of movement, and so light, too."

"Yes, it is perfect, isn't it?" said Maeglin. "I have improved on Father's methods, and even added a few small functional details. For example, how do you like the helm-spike?"

"The spike is functional?" Ecthelion stepped up to the mirror and considered his helm's pointy reflection. "I thought it was an artistic touch. After all, similar decorative motifs are common on Orcish armour."

"Yes, especially in the codpiece area. I noticed that too." Maeglin's reflection, visible over Ecthelion's shoulder, nodded sagely. "I believe those particular spikes are supposed to enlarge the area optically. Mother always said that a prominent codpiece makes a male warrior look much more impressive."

"Such a codpiece would certainly make an impression, yes." Ecthelion felt a small stab of dread, but a quick downward glance reassured him that Maeglin had, this once at least, refrained from following his mother's advice. When he looked back up, Maeglin's eyes shifted guiltily.

"Of course, *you* need no such details," he said. "You have no wish to impress maidens. But back to the spike… Its primary function is the same as that of plumes: it should help your men pick you out in the heat of battle--and, of course, it is far less likely to get weighed down with gore. Moreover, it has a secondary use."

"As a makeshift weapon?"

"Is that all you warriors ever think about? No, I have designed it so it can be used as a clerk's desk-spike, to keep hold of maps and important battle dispatches. No commander should be without one; I put several on my own helm." Maeglin indicated a black suit of armour laid out on a nearby table. Just as he had said, the helmet was decorated with a forest of spikes. "After all, I am more important than you are."

Ecthelion walked over to the table and studied the armour curiously. "Galvorn, is it? The same basic design, I can see, except perhaps for the codp-- I mean, the boots seem a little unusual: all those joints at the instep."

"Ah, that is another functional touch. My very own invention. Perhaps you could test them out for me?" Maeglin rifled through a large wooden box. "Here, this prototype pair should be about your size."

Ecthelion took the prototype boots and examined them closely. The main differences he could see, apart from the extra joints, were a rather elaborate decorative element at the ankle and a substantial heel, perhaps two finger-widths tall. Was this heel the reason for Maeglin's smugness? Everyone knew that the prince liked wearing raised footwear to compensate for the fact that he had not grown quite as tall as the king.

"Hurry up," said Maeglin. "Try them on."

Ecthelion sat down and changed his footwear. The bending required proved far easier than he had expected. "Once again, I must congratulate you on this armour's flexibility," he said as he stood up, partly to cover the fact that the unfamiliar heels made him feel off-balance.

"See, now you can see eye to eye with taller opponents! You know, I owe the idea to your book on the creatures of Morgoth: the part where you mention that many are taller than we are, and require specialized fighting techniques."

Ecthelion stopped himself from pointing out that this was more a question of reach, and tried to think of something more complimentary. The boy looked so pleased with himself. "Yes, well…"

"I expect you are thinking that the increase in height is too small to matter," said Maeglin, his excitement undimmed. "Well, why don't you press on your ankles?"

The decorations at the boots' outer ankles did look pressable. He lifted up one foot and used it to kick lightly at the ankle of the other--and wobbled in place as the balance of his only supporting leg shifted. The heel had grown by another finger-width.

"A couple more kicks, I think," said Maeglin. "Then, the other foot."

Ecthelion did as asked, feeling increasingly foolish as the heels of his boots telescoped up under his feet. He had worn raised shoes only rarely, usually on the stage, but even there his own height usually proved sufficient. The unaccustomed pose made his legs tense oddly: he knew that, beneath the armour, it was emphasizing all the muscles in the lower half of his body. The thought of it made him feel embarrassed, ridiculous, almost as if he were wearing Maeglin's special codpiece.

"Come on, try walking," said Maeglin. "And tell me what you think."

Ecthelion took a few steps, awkwardly at first, but then with more grace as his balance adapted. More grace, but not more confidence: he still felt like an idiot. It occured to him that at least the pointy heels could, like the helm-spike, be used as makeshift weapon, but mentioning this struck him as unwise.

"I think they-- Well, I must confess that I find them rather strange. They shorten my stride, and I am a bit worried about what will happen if I try walking on rocky terrain, or even downhill."

"You can always adjust the height. Anyway, all such concerns will go away after about a day of practice. I myself have been wearing mine round the forge for a week. I find it very satisfying."

He would. He did like towering over people; towering over his anvil must be almost as good. "I can imagine," said Ecthelion.

"I knew you would understand. Egalmoth did not. He… he laughed. Not just at the boots, but at his spiky helmet!" Maeglin scowled darkly, which made him look about thirty years old. "But I take it you at least would like me to make you a pair to go with your own armour?"

"Well, I--" Ecthelion shuffled his feet a bit to find a more stable stance. "I do not think it would be right."

"Why not?"

An unimportant lie told to spare another's feelings is not really a lie, Ecthelion told himself. "Because, my prince, I would end up taller than your uncle… who is, I am quite sure, too much of a traditionalist to wear such boots himself."

"You are right. He refused." Maeglin scowled a bit more. "But your other point is a good one, too. If we both wear these boots, you will end up taller than me! So, yes, I will leave your armour as it is… Unless, of course," he smiled generously, "you would like me to strengthen the spike? So you can use it as a weapon, as you wished?"


	5. Sleazy Elf Does Gondolin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little script fic of what might happen if a conventionally Sleazy (Gay) Elf showed up in my version of Gondolin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the fanfic tropes that... well, that annoys me, to be honest, is the one where a sleazy Elf widely known as a master of seduction gets into another Elf's pants using only some light flattery and suggestive comments. Something like:
> 
> Sleazy Elf: When I first glimpsed you across the room, I could not help noticing your skin, pale as alabaster, your hair, black as a raven's wing, your glorious silver orbs, and, above all, your fair countenance. In conclusion, your realm should be proud to house beauty such as yours, and I should like to get to know you better.
> 
> Other Elf: *Blushes* I... I do not deserve such compliments...
> 
> Sleazy Elf: Nonsense. Now, shall we practice some swordplay? I have quite a weapon, and I wield it with great skill.
> 
> Other Elf: I should not...
> 
> Sleazy Elf: *Swivels hips suggestively.*
> 
> Other Elf: Ai, I am overcome! Take me now, oh Sleazy Elf!
> 
> Now of course one good fic-based response to such scenes would be to write a story about a master of seduction who works in more subtle ways, playing to each person's interests and vulnerabilities, flattering them in the ways they would like to be flattered--and not a cold-hearted sleazeball, but someone who genuinely enjoys people, though not in a particularly deep or sensitive way. But I cannot be bothered. Instead, here is a bit of silliness.

The scene takes place at a small gathering in the Palace.

 

Sleazy Elf: My prince!

Maeglin: Yes?

Sleazy Elf: My prince, I am Hildor, a completely uncanonical ambassador from a fictional Sindarin realm.

Maeglin: Oh, really? Does your realm wish to offer us homage?

Hildor: No, my prince, but I wish to offer personal homage--to you. When I first glimpsed you across the room, I could not help noticing your skin, pale as alabaster, your hair, black as a raven's wing, your glorious silver orbs, and, above all, your fair countenance. In conclusion, my lord, Gondolin should be proud to house beauty such as yours, and I... I should like to get to know you better.

Maeglin: *Looks him over.* Well, I can always use more followers. And your appreciation for my appearance shows good taste. It is my blood, of course: my mother was a woman of exceptional beauty and charm. Truly, when it comes to looks, the women of my family have no equal. Would you like to see a picture of her?

Hildor: Is this picture in your private chamber, my prince? *Winks.*

Maeglin: No, I have it right here. *Pulls out a small icon, starts staring at it.* Just look...

Hildor: Um... My prince? I beg your pardon--I am still here... My prince?

Maeglin: *Keeps staring. Sighs.*

Hildor: Oh, curse it. *Glances around the room, notices Egalmoth, heads in his direction.* My lord, er...

Egalmoth: Egalmoth. Good evening, ambassador.

Hildor: Good evening. My lord Egalmoth, I glimpsed you across the room, and I could not help noticing your skin, pale as alabaster, your hair, black as a raven's wing, your glorious silver orbs, and, above all, your fair countenance. In conclusion, my lord, Gondolin should be proud to--

Egalmoth: Wait a moment. You saw me across the room, and you noticed my skin, hair, and eyes?

Hildor: Yes.

Egalmoth: Not my robes?

Hildor: No.

Egalmoth: Curse it. I knew I should have gone with the ruby-studded green velvet.

Hildor: I am sure you would have looked charming in it, my lord, but the truth is, I care not for clothes. In fact, I find them rather restricting. Perhaps we might retire to some other, more private place, where I--

Egalmoth: Oh. Oh, I see. *Steps back.* My lord Ambassador, I have to inform you that I am completely uninterested in any of that.

Hildor: I believe I could change your mind, lord Egalmoth. *Stretches suggestively, half-turning to display his buttocks, then swivels his hips.*

Egalmoth: *Shielding his eyes* Please stop that nonsense and go away. No, wait, I have a better idea: stop that nonsense and go talk to Ecthelion, who... well, I think it is fair to say he is interested in some of that. He's over there.

Hildor: Over where? *Follows Egalmoth's eyes, and grins.* What--that one? Really? Thank you for the hint, my lord: I am most grateful.

*Hildor departs.*

Egalmoth: Hey, Glorfindel! I have something entertaining to show you.  
\---

Hildor: Good evening, Lord Ecthelion. When I glimpsed you across the room, I could not help noticing your skin, pale as alabaster, your hair, black as a raven's wing, your glorious silver orbs, and, above all, your fair countenance. In conclusion, my lord, Gondolin should be proud to house beauty such as yours, and I... I should like to get to know you better.

Ecthelion: I see. *Looks a bit uncomfortable.* Well, I suppose 'getting to know me better' would at least lead you to realize that my eyes are a completely normal pale grey. See, this is silver... *Lifts up his hand, displaying the embroidery on his sleeve* ...and this is grey. *Points to the sleeve itself* Now, which one do my eyes resemble? Oh, come on, stop staring like that, it's hardly a difficult question.

Hildor: Well, neither really, for the light of the Two Trees, shining forth--

Ecthelion: As for the rest of your description, I suppose that it was somewhat accurate, but it's true for almost everyone here. Anyway, I wish people wouldn't talk about raven wings on alabaster. Not only is it a cliche, but it makes me think of birds' fondness for statues, and as Lord of the Fountains I am all too aware of the difficulties this causes. And while we're on the subject, I also wish people wouldn't describe eyes as orbs. I mean, I know eyes are orbs, having seen them roll across several fields of battle, but for that very rea--

Hildor: Ah, you are a soldier, my lord! I might have guessed. *Looks Ecthelion up and down.* Does that mean that you are... good with your sword?

Ecthelion: I am adequately skilled for the job I hold... Not Lord of the Fountains, the other one, with the guard. You see, in this city--

Hildor: It just so happens that I am famed for my skill with my own mighty weapon. I am also the inventor of several novel techniques much renowned in my fictional Sindarin realm.

Ecthelion: Truly? I am always interested in novel swordplay techniques.

Hildor: Then we must spar together! How about tomorrow morning, in your chambers?

Ecthelion: Tomorrow morning's fine, but I would prefer the training grounds.

Hildor: We can certainly start out there, yes... Until tomorrow, then?

Ecthelion: Very well.

Glorfindel: But Ecthelion, you can't... Good evening to you both, sorry to intrude... Ecthelion, you can't spar with this warrior tomorrow, you have... other plans.

Ecthelion: What do you mean? I thought we called off tomorrow because you were meeting with the vintner's guild.

Glorfindel: Yes, and because you had... that other matter to attend to. *Looks at Ecthelion intensely.*

Ecthelion: No, I really do not think--

Glorfindel: Also, Turgon needs to see you. Right now.

Ecthelion: Does he? In that case, I must go. Excuse me, Ambassador.

*Ecthelion departs.*

Glorfindel: Well, then. Hildor, is it?

Hildor: Yes, my lord. And let me just say that, when I glimpsed you across the room, I could not help noticing your skin, pale as... I mean, your golden skin, and your hair, bright as the rays of the sun, and your glorious silver... no, grey... no, wait, your orbs are sort of greenish, really.

Glorfindel: Indeed, they are. I see the men of your fictional Sindarin realm are as observant as they are given to wearing overly tight leggings.

Hildor: Oh, you noticed! Perhaps you would like to try them on? I have no doubt you would look most impressive.

Glorfindel: Most likely, yes.

Hildor: So, shall we retire to your chambers and swap clothing... among other things? *Swivels his hips.*

Glorfindel: To my chambers? But you were just drooling over Ecthelion!

Hildor: Yes, and you chased him off most adroitly. Did you think that would offend me? No, I feel rather flattered. Although you really do owe me some sort of recompense... Tell me, are you skilled at handling swords?

Glorfindel: Yes, extremely skilled, but do not worry. I am told that you have diplomatic immunity.

Hildor: I beg you pardon? Oh, never mind. I see you Gondolindrim do not appreciate the subtler arts of seduction, so I shall be blunt. I know you want me: you approached me yourself! You even admitted that you noticed my lucky leggings! So, where shall we do it?

Glorfindel: Oh, Eru! Look, I approached you to... well, among other things, to offer to introduce you to a certain guardsman of the Harp who is just your type, in terms of hair, eyes, skin, and interests. But now I have met you, I know that--

Hildor: The Harp, you say? *Looks around.* You do not by any chance mean the man by the buffet table?

Glorfindel: No! No, that's Salgant, and I really would not--

Hildor: Hah! He's wearing a Harp tabard, my indiscreet blond friend. I wonder what it conceals...

*Hildor departs.*

Glorfindel: *Looks vaguely guilty, for a moment, but it passes.* Hey, Egalmoth! I have something entertaining to show you!


	6. Armour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the Nirnaeth, Glorfindel and Egalmoth share wine and a chat.

"Friend or foe?" asked the sentry of the Heavenly Arch.

"Friend."

"Very well. What is the wo--"

"Stop that nonsense, there!" called out one of a nearby group of officers. "Do you not recognize Lord Glorfindel?"

"No, no, he is quite right to challenge me," said Glorfindel. "Remember, I could be a creature of Morgoth in fair form."

The officer looked at him doubtfully, then at his friends, either trying to decide whether this was a joke, or whether the suspicion applied to them as well. They stared back. Glorfindel left them to it, and smiled at the sentry, who seemed rather flustered.

It helped. "What is today's word, my lord?" asked the sentry.

"May you wield your sword with zeal," said Glorfindel. "Response?"

"For it is made of finest steel."

One of Prince Maeglin's most self-referential efforts. Glorfindel nodded and walked on, crossing the camp to climb the small hill Egalmoth had chosen as a command center. He found his friend standing outside his tent, munching on a piece of jerky and watching the sunset.

"Glorfindel!" he called out with delight. "Come watch this wonder of wonders: the sun is disappearing behind a horizon, instead of behind some mountains."

"It does look odd," said Glorfindel. "You know, I was just thinking about how long it is since we have been out of the city."

"Here, have some jerky, and let us speak as friends." Egalmoth waved at his adjutants, sending them out of earshot. "It is always such a relief to complain a bit instead of trying to seem as perfect as one of the Ainur, is it not? So, tell me more... Do you doubt our battle-readiness?"

"No, of course not. That is to say, perhaps. Not our skills, naturally, but our morale. We are not used to… Well, to watching those we care for die." Glorfindel paused, surprised by his own words, and bit down on the meat in the hope of avoiding more such surprises.

"Or to dying ourselves, for that matter."

Glorfindel knew that this did not apply to him, but of course saying so would be somewhat rude.

"Or even," continued Egalmoth, "to getting our armour dented."

"Right, that is what I was thinking about. When I saw Fingon's host, and their gear--you know, all those worn, mismatched suits, truly battle-tested--I could not help wondering how we must look to them. All polished, and colour-coordinated…" His eyes wandered over Egalmoth's breastplate, with its rainbow of gems. "Well, decorated, anyway, and probably over-decorated at that. More like courtiers rather than warriors."

"Ah." Egalmoth nodded to himself.

"What, 'ah'?"

"Ah, I see the reason for your strange gloom. You are worried about your appearance again. But do not worry, Glorfindel, I am sure your armour will get scratched up soon enough, and acquire that authentic 'real warrior' look."

"I know that. Ecthelion said the same thing. He even added that I could put in some dents myself, if the matter weighs on my mind so."

"An excellent suggestion. Truly, you are rich in wise and sympathetic friends."

Sympathetic? A joke, of course, but a painful one: Glorfindel had found the suggestion cold, had found Ecthelion himself cold and busy. Now he felt resentful, which always bothered him. He stretched as far as his armour would allow, and gazed down into the camp, which the growing darkness had turned from rows of tents into rows of campfires. Here, in the Heavenly Arch sector, many burned with colourful chemical flames, for the Arches took their emblem seriously. Further on, his own men tended fires of the usual red-yellow; then the sectors blended together, though he could find the center by seeking out the Feanorian lamps of the King's retinue, and the portable forges indicating the Moles or the Hammers. The more heavily Telerin hosts--the Swallows, the Trees, the Fountains--would be beyond them.

"My turn," said Egalmoth. "When I look at all the men ranged below… I know it is morbid, literally so, but I cannot help trying to estimate how many will remain alive tomorrow."

His tone was earnest. Glorfindel abandoned his search and glanced at his friend. "Any good commander must do so, sometimes," he said.

"It is not just a military matter… But you know that, of course. Though, did I tell you what Meleth said to me before I left?"

"No."

"She said she intended to think of me as dead, so that my possible return would be a pleasant surprise. At the time, this amused me, but now… It is one way to feel brave, anyway, is it not? To convince oneself that one is halfway to Mandos already. And yet, well, I find I feel a bit too alive for it to work." Egalmoth shifted, his armour clanking. "This whole courage business seemed easier when we were young and stupid."

"Yes, and before the Dagor Bragollach."

"Bragollach or no Bragollach, you for one still seem to manage all right. How do you do it?"

"How do I do what? I very much doubt my courage is greater than yours, or that of anyone… of anyone among our friends, at least."

"Yet you never seem worried for yourself, I have noticed. That is what I meant."

"Well, you did mention youth and stupidity." Glorfindel hesitated. "But to be serious, if I seem unconcerned, it is because of the Valar. They have seen fit to bolster my personal courage."

"How have they worked this miracle?"

"By sending me death-dreams."

"Death-dreams?" Egalmoth stared at him. "So that you know when you will die?"

"No, not when. How." Faced with his friend's stare, Glorfindel continued. "There are big pointy rocks, and fire… a fire-demon. And a sense of duty done, I think."

"I see." Egalmoth stood silent for a moment. "Glorfindel, I do not mean to be morbid again, but I am sure you will do your duty here. Also, there will be demons, and as for sharp rocks--"

"They are not the same type of rocks. More like the ones in our mountains. And my armour feels different, and… trust me, I have had this dream thousands of times. I just know it does not apply."

"I am glad to hear it," said Egalmoth faintly. "And, I must admit, glad I have not been so blessed by the Valar. Does Ecthelion know about this?"

"Yes, naturally. I mean, I sometimes-- Most people talk about their dreams when they wake up, don't they? Anyway, he knows."

"Not about the dream, about the rocks being all wrong here. Because if he does not, it might ease his mind."

"Right." It would, certainly: Glorfindel himself would love to have the knowledge that Ecthelion would not die. Or Egalmoth, for that matter; or any of his own men. "Although, of course, we are warriors, who accept life under the shadow of death, and though obviously there will be short-term pain, it does not matter, for Good will triumph, and, you know… all that nonsense."

"Quite." Egalmoth did not seem comforted.

"More importantly, however, we are warriors who have wine."

"We are?"

Glorfindel pulled out his flask. "Well, brandy, really."

"Liquid courage!" Egalmoth reached for it. "Not that you need any, what with your Valar-given dreams, but how about drinking some and writing a song about Balrogs?"


	7. Rivendell Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel -- now living in Rivendell -- accepts an invitation from Erestor

"Ah, Glorfindel. I saw light under the library door, and thought it might be you."

Glorfindel closed his book and looked up at the speaker. "Erestor, good evening! I did not notice you enter." 

"Well, you were very deeply engrossed in that history of Gondolin." Erestor gave one of his little knowing smiles. "Reading about yourself again?" 

"I was not." Glorfindel knew he had not been very deeply engrossed at all. He had failed to hear Erestor's arrival only because of the way Erestor was dressed: dark robe and slippers, no boots, knife, nothing that could clank or jingle. Late-night clothes. "But I am sorry--am I in here too late?"

"Of course not. The Library of Imladris is always open to all those who wish to seek knowledge." Erestor's smile grew even more mysterious. "You should know, however, that the knowledge you seek is no secret. The books you consult tend to fall open at your favourite pages."

"Do they?" Glorfindel tried it with 'An Illustrated Military History', and, sure enough, found himself looking once again at the bright illuminations portraying the heroes of Gondolin. "I am not the only one shown here, you know. I like reading about my old friends."

"So late at night?" Erestor scrutinized him in what seemed a rather scientific manner. "Would you not prefer to spend this time with… new friends?" 

"Oh, I do so, when given the opportunity. But the Hall of Fire is empty tonight, and, well…" Glorfindel shrugged.

"In that case," said Erestor, "perhaps I could offer you a drink in my rooms?"

The invitation surprised Glorfindel: they were not close. Did he seem so in need of charity? He said, "I would not want to impose—"

"A drink, and perhaps a game of chess. Do you play?"

"Actually, no, I do not."

"No? I am surprised. I am told it is a great way to brush up on tactics between military campaigns." Erestor smiled again. "I could teach you to play, if you like."

"Oh, I know the game. I just— I do not mean to be rude, but I do not care for it." The military metaphor was especially off-putting: Glorfindel did not like the idea of commanding troops from a point of safety without being on the battlefield himself. 

"I see. Well, in that case, perhaps I could show you my personal collection of old manuscripts dating to the Years of the Trees? Some are rumoured to have come here through Gondolin."

Glorfindel felt intrigued. "That would be most kind of you."

 

 

The wine Erestor poured was probably very subtle, Glorfindel decided: he could not detect much of a flavour, or even of an alcoholic content. Still, he sipped it happily enough as he glanced around Erestor's main room, which was decorated in "Late Nargothrond" style: delicate carvings, and frescoes pretending to be windows looking out over the famed sights of the First Age.

"Ah, here we go." Erestor returned carrying a handful of scroll-cases, which he placed on his desk with great care. "Let us start with the oldest."

Glorfindel stopped studying a mountain that was almost certainly supposed to be the Thangorodrim and joined him in examining a worn piece of parchment. 

"Now this," said Erestor, "is a first-aid guide. If you look carefully, you will notice that the sections on frostbite have been added later, in a different hand, suggesting that this scroll was altered on or after the Helcaraxe."

"Yes…" Glorfindel had not thought about the Ice in years. "Lady Nerwen had a group of healers working on new cures… But I suppose she can tell you that herself."

Erestor made a suppressed scoffing sound. "I would not want to bother the lady. But look here: this is a scroll of hymns praising the Valar in rather intimate terms, as if addressing them in person."

"You are right, that probably came over the Ice as well. I mean, it doesn't seem like a very Feanorian thing to keep, does it?"

They looked over more music notation, a recipe book, and a guide to practical hairstyles for miners. Glorfindel worked on his wine, and tried not to think about going back to the library. "I suppose," he said, "that these particular items have survived because they are all the sorts of thing people might carry around, and so accidentally bring out of a disaster."

"That is quite probable." Erestor reached into the pile once more. "But look here; this piece is slightly different…"

He unrolled a yellowed paper scroll. Glorfindel swallowed his latest mouthful of wine quickly, before he could choke on it; the pictures he saw looked incredibly familiar.

"I have shocked you, I see," said Erestor. "Not too unpleasantly, I hope."

"No… I mean…" Glorfindel reached to smooth out the paper, but stopped when he realized it would be a little like caressing all the little nude men drawn on it. "If I am shocked, it is only because I know this scroll used to be in our Healers' Library. In Gondolin, that is."

"Did it?" Erestor leaned it closer. "You, er, saw it there?"

"Yes, yes, I did. But the Library burnt down, I believe, so I cannot quite understand how--"

"Oh, as for that, it is no great mystery," said Erestor smugly.

"It is not?" Glorfindel stepped back to gaze at him. "You know who rescued it, then?"

"No, I suspect that it did burn. But I am quite convinced that the scroll you remember was not the only copy. Far from it. You see, as I look upon this work, my scholar's eye detects certain stylistic elements common to all Vanyarin erotic scrolls, and such works were usually copied and shared."

Glorfindel could not decide how to respond to that. He remembered drawing the pictures quite clearly, in spite of all that had happened since. 

"Yes." Erestor smiled as if in response to something, and Glorfindel realized that he had been smiling a little, himself. "Of course, now it is the only remaining copy… But it is quite safe, here in my private collection."

"Private?" Glorfindel frowned. That had not been his plan at all. "But did you not say that such works were meant to be shared?"

"I could not share such an important historical artifact with just anyone! But, as you can see, I am only too happy to share it when the occasion demands, as I have shared it with you."

"Because I am a historical artifact myself?"

"I would not say that." As if to prove his point, Erestor's smile grew less and less scholarly. "I just thought you might be interested."

"I am." Glorfindel let his eyes fall to the scroll. Looking down at the pictures, he could not help feeling even more nostalgic than when he looked in the history books. Lonely, even. But perhaps Erestor could help him with that? 

Oh Eru. Things certainly felt more complicated during this, his second life. What he was about to do made him feel really rather guilty.

"In your detailed study of history," he said, "you must have heard about Ecthelion."

"Of course." Erestor looked insulted. "But then, so has any functionally illiterate Mirkwood Elf. After all, his name is a battle cry--"

"I know. I meant, have you heard about Ecthelion and me?"

"Ah." Erestor's face became very still. "You mean-- I had heard some rumours, but then one hears rumours about Maedhros and Fingon, too, and Eru knows those have been disproved."

"Well, anyway, the ones about us are quite true."

"What?" asked Erestor incredulously. "All of them?"

Glorfindel gave this some thought. What could these rumours say? "Probably. We had a few good centuries, you know. But," he pressed on, "just in case there are inaccuracies… I suspect that, as a scholar, you would be glad to have them straightened out."

"Yes, why not." Erestor regained his poise. "In that case, let us move to my couch: we will be far more comfortable talking there."

"Very well." Glorfindel picked up the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses. "That does seem best, since--if you do not mind--I really would very much appreciate the chance talk about Ecthelion for several hours."

"Of course." Erestor led the way across the room. "I quite understand. It can be difficult to find people to confide in."

"Thank you! Yes, that is it, exactly. There is so much I want to speak of, every day… But, really, I am sure I would be happy enough," he said with as much bright-eyed innocence as he could muster, "with just a few hours of Ecthelion-themed conversation each week."

"Just a few hours of…" 

"Not necessarily all at once, of course."

"Of course." Erestor sighed, and tossed back his wine, before sitting down. "All right then. Begin."

Glorfindel joined him, and began.


	8. The Comb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel continues to annoy Erestor. This time, with stories of his tragic First Age past.
> 
> This is the closest I have come to posting a Fall of Gondolin fic!

"It is not that I doubt your word," said Erestor in airy, unconvincing tones. "I merely believe you are mistaken."

"Well," replied Glorfindel, "your belief does not alter mine: I still think this comb belongs to me. Or used to, at any rate."

"That is quite understandable. Sentimental people, who cling to the past, and eagerly seek out its traces, make such mistakes easily and often. And this particular comb probably resembles the one you remember to a great degree: it is made of the right kind of tortoiseshell, in the appropriate First Age style, and the decorations… well, they are worn, but they do look a little like celandines. But if you study it closely," Erestor continued, leaning over the cabinet holding the little artifact, "you will realize that they are, in fact, not flowers, but--"

"Stars. The stars of Turgon--and Elenwe, of course. He added the moon to his emblem only once we reached Middle-earth. So, this is not a First Age comb, but one made in preparation for the crossing of the Ice." 

Erestor leaned down further. "I suppose that is possible," he admitted glumly. "But how would such a thing end up in your possession? A gift from your beloved Ecthelion, was it?"

"No," said Glorfindel. "Elenwe had it made, as part of a set, and gave it to me when she saw I had lost mine." He could still remember his irritation when his own bone comb had fallen down an ice-hole; his own fault, too, for grooming his hair while fishing--and an unpleasant reminder of Elenwe's own fate.

"I see," said Erestor with a coldness that fitted Glorfindel's Helcaraxe memories exceptionally well. "And I suppose you carried it with you all the way to Gondolin and back out again, hidden in your armour, no doubt--even as you made your heroic last stand? What a rich life this implement has had!"

This snide announcement, clearly a cover for unhappiness, made Glorfindel feel a little guilty: compared to the scholar's painstaking historical studies, his own first-hand knowledge of those Ages seemed like cheating. "I grew quite fond of it," he said, "being, as you pointed out, sentimental. Also, I rather liked its flowerlessness. To be honest, I find the repetitive use of aristocratic emblems boring. And then… Well, you know how vain I am, and always have been, so it should not surprise you that one of my vambrances had a comb compartment. The Place of the Gods was very windy, you see, and I often needed to freshen up halfway through a parade."

"How sad that your armour has not been preserved for posterity. And yet, how surprising that something concealed in it has."

"Not so surprising, really. I gave it away." The memory caught Glorfindel by surprise, as past-life memories often did. It felt so vivid he that not describing it would have taken a real effort. "It happened soon after we came out of the tunnel, while we were resting. I had walked off a ways, towards a small pond: I wanted to tidy myself up a bit, wash off the soot."

"As you say, your character has remained consistent. So what did you find there, some people even sootier than yourself, whose sad state required that you give up your comb as you soon would your life?"

Erestor's snideness was starting to grate--but, disturbed by the sudden memory, Glorfindel did not want to stop now. "Just one woman," he said. "She was trying to drown herself. When I restrained her she explained that she had lost everything, and it would be an easy death." Before his eyes, the glass of the cabinet glittered like water. "Anyway, I got quite annoyed: it was such a selfish view when there were so few able-bodied people left. So I gave her a stern talking-to, and then the comb, and told her to go do the hair of those who could not do it themselves. I thought it might distract her."

"I see." After making this statement, a little less coldly than before, Erestor stood silent for a while. "Well, if you would like it back, I could speak to Cirdan's Master of Historical Artifacts."

"Thank you!" Glorfindel smiled. "But there is no need for that. I do not want to claim it."

"I understand. I expect you find the memories it evokes… uncomfortable?"

"A little, I suppose, but that is not the issue. See how worn the teeth are, in places?"

"Yes, I do. You know, the philosophers have often remarked on the fragility of material possessions, when compared to the strength of an immortal soul. How right they are."

"I was more worried about the roughness of aged material possessions when compared to the fragility of hair. Just imagine what those rough spots would do to the hair shaft."


	9. Apres Ski

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I once said that I thought my Glorfindel and Fingon should get along very well, and would enjoy doing extreme sports together. A friend replied that they could also get drunk and talk about boys.
> 
> So I wrote a scene in which all these things happen.

Fingon’s ski shack was not too bad, Glorfindel decided. True, the walls were a bit asymmetrical, and not entirely wind-proof, but how could one mind such trivialities when these walls concealed such a large supply of Fingon’s liquor, and when this liquor was so very warming that the icy draughts coming through the cracks actually felt refreshing.

Glorfindel refilled his cup, and passed the bottle to Fingon, who refilled his own, continuing to speak all the while.

“...and I know he is very busy, even if he is not High King -- I mean, he has to manage his brothers, which... which must be a lot like managing six Aredhels... Anyway, I worry. All that thinking he does all the time, it cannot be healthy. And then, I do believe he would like it here.”

He waved his drink-free hand around, indicating the room -- and struck an empty bottle. Glorfindel caught it before it hit the floor, and studied its glossy surface while pondering the subject of Fingon’s musings. The first response he though of was, “Of course, your cousin is very attractive.”

“Yes, I-- Wait. How do you know?”

Faced with Fingon’s suddenly accusing stare, Glorfindel could only say, “Everyone knows that.”

“Yes, he is famed for his good looks, but the way you said it, it seemed as if-- Anyway I was only explaining that... wait, what was I talking about?”

“I think you were talking about your love for your cousin.”

Fingon stared again. “No! I do not talk about that. Not even when I drink.” He took a long swallow from his cup. “I cannot. I am not good at discussing these things.”

“I do not remember the exact things you said, but that is what I took away from it. Anyway, it makes sense. You two have always been close. You have much in common. You are good friends who understand each other. It seems so...” Glorfindel paused, seeking the correct word. “Right. Obvious. Simple.”

“No, no, no, it is surprising, and complicated. There are all these politics, and obligations, and the Foe, and-- Anyway, you are wrong, about the understanding. His brain is like a, like a clock, with all these parts moving together.” Fingon set down his cup and made rotating gestures with both his hands. “Wheels and things. Impossible for a person to understand.”

Glorfindel sipped his drink. “But, surely, a clock--”

“Besides, my parents had Real Love,” said Fingon morosely, “and Father told me how it happens: you see a girl across the room, and, BLAM!” His fist slammed the table. “You just know. You grow up and set aside silly interests like skiing off cliffs and, and... settle down somewhere, together.”

“Is that how it happens? In a single moment?” With strange clarity, Glorfindel recalled the night on the Ice when he had looked up, through fire-smoke, to see the source of the music. “Does it have to be a-- Does it have to be a room?”

“It was for my parents. Well, a hall. With an exhibition of blue flowers in it. Like Mother’s eyes, Father said.”

“But how does it work, after? Is the... girl supposed to notice you, as well?”

“I think she notices you when you introduce yourself? Unless she already knows you. Then, maybe--”

“Maybe she sat down there across the hall just so you would see her.”

Fingon drank, frowning. “Mother never said.”

“But then maybe, if you are the girl, you just sit there, in flattering clothes and good lighting, but you are not noticed at all. Or maybe the girl does see you, but she decides you are a shallow, overdressed prat, and later when she asks you about... irrigation plans, or something, you become strangely nervous, so you make a reply that makes no sense, not even to you, and when you realize this, you try to act like it was some Vanyarin proverb, and, ugh. You--”

“Ha! I get it!” Fingon looked extremely pleased with himself. “You are speaking from experience -- you love a girl!”

“No! That is,” said Glorfindel quickly, since Fingon’s obvious disappointment was painful to watch, “not exactly. I mean, how can one tell, really? Wanting odd things is not love, and neither is embarrassment, and, really, there are so many other possible descriptions of my state, such as... over-enthusiastic admiration, or maybe hero-worship.”

“I used to hero-worship Maitimo,” said Fingon. “He was so good at games. But now I am probably better, so... I do still admire him, of course. Most of the things he says are things I would never come up with. But then, he spends so much time thinking... he outsmarts even himself sometimes.”

“Sounds... uncomfortable.”

“I am sure it must be.” Fingon took a long swallow. “Hence, this cabin. I really think it would help him, to go skiing. One cannot think too much, not when doing it properly.”

“Not about anything other than survival, certainly.” Glorfindel drank, thoughtfully. “And then, there would be the evenings, when you would be here together, alone, talking... much as we are now... which could be awkward, of course. Not that this is awkward! I mean, we--”

“We are relaxed around each other,” said Fingon, waving his cup around, “because we do not admire each other all that much.”

“Right.” Glorfindel felt faintly insulted, but only for a moment: an idea drove the feeling from his mind. “But wait, I have it! You could tell him about the Ice--”

“No, not the Ice! I mean, he knows about it already, and any discussion of it makes him go all... weird. Guilty. Even though I tell him--”

“I do not suggest that you should describe the whole experience. Only that you should tell him how we used to huddle for warmth. And mention how cold it is here, in this hut.” Glorfindel met Fingon’s confused stare. “Look, I know it sounds a bit ridiculous, but I am told that this anecdote can encourage people to see what huddling for warmth would feel like.”

“You are told? But you yourself have not tried this approach?”

“There is no point. I mean, it clearly would not work on anyone who has had to do it in earnest, to survive. Luckily, your cousin missed out on all that.”

“Yes, luckily,” said Fingon. “But yes, that sounds harmless enough. I might try it. Thanks.” His face took on a far-off look.

“You are welcome.” Glorfindel looked down into his cup. It was empty again; the sadness he felt at this surprised him. “Anyway... I do not think anything is going to work for me. I have no evidence that-- Look, I have seen the way your cousin looks at you, sometimes. With, well, affection.”

“True. But then, he is, you know...” Fingon seemed to struggle for the right words. “My cousin. So it is not evidence, either.”

Fingon had a point. Glorfindel shrugged, then sighed -- then felt ashamed of his un-festive, mood-ruining behaviour. It was no way for a guest to act. He forced himself to sit up as straight as he could.

“How about,” he said, “another bottle of your excellent, er, wine? And maybe a song?”

He later came to regret his decision, since Fingon’s liquor, so effective against the cold, did little for Fingon’s singing. But at least the combination served to drive the whole exchange from his mind.


	10. The Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a story--well, vignette--about Glorfindel and Ecthelion's visit to Númenor! Pity it's so short and silly. (And the only real way to tell that it is set in Númenor is the OC's Quenya name...)

Glorfindel could not enjoy the feast, not since the dark suspicion had soured his mood. Still, though the question burned in him, he waited for a private moment before asking, “So, Ecthelion, what did you think of that male dancer?”

Ecthelion frowned. “The male dancer?”

“You know, Viëliltie the Snake? The gyrating Man? With the face-paint, and all those bells, and a liberal interpretation of what constitutes a pair of trousers?”

“Oh, the underdressed acrobat? He seemed limber... and I suppose he has a good strength-to-weight ratio, to do some of those moves. But the specific way he chose to demonstrate his athleticism struck me as a bit… Well, silly. All that unnecessary shaking.”

“I do not think it was athleticism he was trying to demonstrate.”

“Was it not?”

Ecthelion’s confusion seemed genuine. And was genuinely contagious. Glorfindel ran a hand through his hair. “Would you not, then, admit,” he asked, “that you found his performance a bit… sensual?”

“Sensual? Hardly. As I told you--” Suddenly, Ecthelion’s eyes widened. “Why, did you?”

“No, of course no-- But look, what about the expression on your face?”

“What expression?”

“That rather rigid, too-calm expression you assume whenever you are trying to suppress a powerful impulse? Do not worry, it is kind of subtle, really, I only know it because--- Anyway, you had it the whole time the Snake was dancing.”

“I did?” Ecthelion glanced away, thinking. “Ah, right!”

“Ah right, what?”

“It is true: I was fighting a powerful impulse. Only not because of the dancer, but because of the guitarist.”

“The guitarist? I am not sure I remember… He cannot have been very--”

“Oh, he was very… something. The whole time he was playing, I just kept wanting to walk over there, and grab him...”

Ecthelion was starting to sound rather impassioned; Glorfindel braced himself for the worst.

“Grab him?”

“Yes, grab him, and take away his guitar, and just… just tune it, Eru damn it!”


	11. The Shield Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wulfila suggested that I write "a story in which Ecthelion angsts tragically about what he did the night before when he was tipsy enough to lose his customary inhibitions."
> 
> This is what I ended up writing.

Ecthelion woke to a sense of wrongness. The surface he lay on seemed too soft, somehow, and his face felt too warm. His eyes, when opened, were assailed by brightness, aggravating his… pounding headache? He quickly shut them, and covered them with a protective hand. Was he concussed, then? Were these the Healers’ Halls? He could remember no battle, but with head wounds it was often--”

“Ah, sorry,” a very familiar voice said. “I tend to rely on the sun to wake me, most mornings, and last night I forgot to… Here, let me close the curtains now.”

Even with his face half-covered, Ecthelion sensed the moment when the too-bright sunlight was replaced with soothing gloom. He lowered his hand, reopened his eyes, and confirmed his growing suspicion.

Yes. That gold-green brocade was definitely the--rather predictable--fabric Glorfindel had chosen to cover his windows. And there, beside it, were the more tastefully painted, familiar walls of Glorfindel’s bedroom, and, of course, the familiar form of Glorfindel himself, now approaching Ecthelion with a sympathetic smile.

“Here,” he said as he reached the bed, holding out a large cup.

Ecthelion sat up, quite carefully, and accepted the object, which was full of some mysterious, odd-smelling liquid. “What--” he asked, then cleared his throat: his voice had sounded strangely hoarse. “What is it?”

“Oh, herbs and bark and things. It will help.” Glorfindel smiled. “Trust me.”

Ecthelion did, generally speaking, so he sipped the vile contents of the cup, all the while focusing on two things: not grimacing, and trying to assess the situation. 

“So, I seem to have overslept a bit,” he said in between sips. “And I am sorry-- I mean, I know you have asked me to stay over several times, but I doubt you intended for me to-- That is, I cannot have been much fun, given my current state.”

“Oh, I would not say that.” Glorfindel’s smile had turned a little mischievous. “While it is true that you, er, fell asleep rather suddenly, and at an awkward moment, up until that point you had been a very entertaining guest. Very enthusiastic, too. I will never look at the main hallway the same way again, and the table in the--”

“I see.” Ecthelion felt his face burn as memory started to return, in a confusing medley of rather striking images. “And I really must thank you for being so gracious about all my… whims. I suspect I was somewhat more demanding than the bounds of politeness could--”

“Oh, come on.” Glorfindel sat down on the edge of the bed. “That is very nearly insulting! While it is true that you were, as you say, ‘rather demanding’, as well as impressively energetic for a drunk person, I am hardly lacking in stamina myself. Besides, you know I love being the focus of your attention. And you did say the most interesting things.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

Ecthelion set the now-empty cup aside. “Care to elaborate?” he asked, with a sinking feeling.

“I am almost tempted to let you rely on your imagination. But surely you remember… For one, that long speech you gave, about Laurelin? And its golden light, and the Silmarils? And, last but not least, the glow of my hair? My favourite part,” continued Glorfindel with far too much glee, “was when you said it was lucky I had never met Feanor properly, since he would have certainly hounded me with all sorts of propositions.”

“Oh. Well, that is not too-- Wait, to whom did I give this speech? Please tell me it was you only; I mean, I seem to recall quite a large crowd--”

“The crowd was earlier. At the Vintner’s Guild feast. But surely you remember that?”

“I remember sampling the new vintage, yes.”

“Right, you certainly explored the new vintage quite thoroughly. In spite of your lack of serious drinking experience. If you will recall, I did try to warn you--”

“Yes, you did,” said Ecthelion, frowning. “But I still maintain that it would have been rude to taste some of the wines, but not others. I just need a smaller goblet, I expect… But, returning to the topic of that crowd. All those people… I seem to remember them as being rather attentive. And yet, I cannot-- Would you be able to tell me what I said to them?”

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. “Actually, you did not say much of anything.”

“Eru. What did I do, then? Dance like a madman? Or did I fall over in an undignified and amusing manner?” Come to think of it, Ecthelion’s right side was feeling a little painful. He lowered the covers and examined himself, to discover some truly impressive bruises.

“Eru.” Glorfindel leaned forward. “Those look-- I shall fetch you a compress presently. But no, they are not from any sort of fall.”

“No?”

“No, you got those when you jumped off the table.”

“When I... what?”

“To be precise, when you dove off the table into your crowd of adoring fans. Only, of course, many of them had been even more thorough in their wine-sampling that you, so when they tried to--”

“Glorfindel. Please, please stop toying with me.” Ecthelion sat up straight, ready to face the worst. “Just tell me how I captured the attention of all those… fans.”

“You really do not re-- No, clearly not. But, seriously, do not worry: it was not as bad as you clearly imagine. You did nothing you have not done before, and publicly, too. After all, how do you usually capture an audience’s attention?”

“By… singing?”

“Exactly.”

“So, I sang?”

“You certainly did.”

Well, drunken singing would explain his hoarse voice, at least. But... “Valar. I cannot begin to guess how imprecise I must have sounded, in that state. I do hope I chose something simple, and hard to ruin. A folk song, maybe?” 

“Not quite.”

Ecthelion rubbed at his forehead. “Tell me it was not the Orc-Slaying Ditty.”

“No, it was a much more edifying composition.” Glorfindel’s smile grew a little dreamy. “I think people are calling it ‘The Shield Wall’.”

“I do not believe I know any songs by that-- Oh.” Another vague memory began to resurface: of the bright joy that often accompanies a burst of inspiration. “I composed it on the spot, did I?”

“You seemed to, yes. I will never understand how that works--one moment you were there, barely-- I mean, you had been very quiet for a while, and then, suddenly, you had this whole song, of many verses, that you needed to share with the world.”

“Of many verses?” This was getting worse and worse. Improvising a tune was one thing, but writing lengthy lyrics on impulse, without several rounds of edits… Ecthelion could just imagine the banality. “Was I attempting some sort of epic, then?”

“Not really. It was more of a… mood piece. About fighting side by side, and about the feelings that--”

“Feelings?” Ecthelion’s head throbbed as he leaned forward abruptly. “I sang about feelings?”

“Yes, but why should that disturb you so? You sing about feelings all the time.”

“In the abstract, or in character. Not about my personal emotions. After all, they tend to be rather… inelegant, and some of them...” With a small gesture, Ecthelion indicated the space between himself and Glorfindel. “Well, they are not the sort of thing that would resonate with most listeners, are they?”

“Perhaps not...” Glorfindel’s barely-suppressed glee faded briefly, then returned in force. “But last night’s song certainly did! And you did not even censor yourself very much. Not,” he said quickly, clearly sensing Ecthelion’s rising dismay, “that you mentioned any... unusual physical desires. But you sounded so impassioned and compelling as you sang about the affection, and mutual admiration, and inspiration that true comrades in arms can--”

“Yes, yes. I know the sort of thing you mean.” Ecthelion had long been prone to sentimental fancies of that kind, but to advertise such a private and embarrassing indulgence in public… He covered his face with his hands again, unable to meet even Glorfindel’s gaze. “I can hardly believe-- I suspect that I have forgotten this incident on purpose, as a self-protective measure. I can only hope that others will dismiss it from their minds almost as quickly.”

“Actually..” He heard Glorfindel shift closer. “I fear your hope might be a vain one. You see, people really loved that song. I know I did, as did the other guards, of course, and even the non-combatant guests. So I suspect it is likely to become rather popular, at least for a while.”

Hands were no longer enough to conceal Ecthelion’s mortification. He reached over to the side, grabbed a pillow, and pulled it over his head.

“That is no bad thing, you know.” Glorfindel’s voice sounded rather muffled, but confident. “For the Guard, I mean. Several of the wine-makers’ apprentices asked to join on the spot. Given our recent difficulties with recruitment, is that not worth some amount of… unwarranted embarrassment?”

It was worth far more, of course -- but, to Ecthelion’s ongoing shame, focusing on the good of the Guard did not seem to be improving his mood. Or alleviating his headache. So, he stayed under the pillow, the linen cool against his heated face.

On the other hand,” continued Glorfindel, “if you wish to hide until the fad has died down, you are quite welcome to stay here. You really are the most entertaining guest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep poking at this, but it does not seem to be getting any better. Time to let it rest, I think!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Maglor Tunes a Guitar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361275) by [Himring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring)




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